


Drinking at the End of the World

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha Universe with integrated troll/human society, Dystopian society, M/M, POV switch, bureaucracy bullshit, davekat - Freeform, gonna be a long fic some day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:00:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4052482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat Vantas has always felt destined for great purpose, yet never found satisfaction among his own species. Dave Strider is fighting to keep his species alive through his art, though he never signed up to be their savior. More than personalities will clash when these two antiheroes meet.</p>
<p>The world of pre-apocalypse has a way of making love and hate appear to be more similar than even quadrants can predict, however patriotism through anarchy is a little more difficult to sort out. </p>
<p>After all, what good is rebellion if there is no one to live for?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Visit

**Author's Note:**

> “One has to take a somewhat bold and dangerous line with this existence: especially as, whatever happens, we are bound to lose it.”  
> ― Friedrich Nietzsche

Mist rolled over the side of the building, thick pillows of fog snuffing out any hope of sunlight entering through the already dingy windows. It made almost no difference to Karkat Vantas, seeing as he wasn’t supposed to be gazing out the windows anyway. Even if he was permitted a break, there really wasn’t anything interesting to gaze at. A few industrial buildings surrounded by paved roads and sidewalks do not exactly scream prestige, but they do make it the perfect location for a government building. He wouldn’t have put it passed the Imperial Legislation to have picked this spot for the majority of foreign operations in order to purposefully not inspire creativity. 

One accidental swing of the hand is enough to hit his cup of coffee off his desk, sailing into his lap. Cursing under his breath, he’s not sure if he’s angry that he ruined his pants or that he’s got addicted to this bean juice since deployment from his home planet. 

Karkat is far from the only operative working undercover on Earth, one among thousands, but he is the only member of his personal department. Another accidental coincidence, and another mistake due to his unsightly genetic displacement. He thought that when he had left Alternia, almost three sweeps ago now, he would have also left behind the caste system that dictated his every movement. That was what they had all said, of course, and one of the main recruitment slogans. The soldiers who came back in uniform, who paraded the streets and spoke of glory on new worlds all chided in to give the same tale: Earth was a place where even lowbloods could earn the rank of Officer, where the viscosity of blood meant nothing. Humans, after all, were the enemy. Trolls needed to band together to face the threat. This had all seemed attractive to a young Karkat, a grub full of dreams bigger than universal boundaries. 

His first day on the human planet had taught him differently. Karkat doesn’t like to think about it.

While there was no war on Earth, there was indeed paperwork. It seems that by the time that Karkat had enlisted and shipped out, the majority of physical violence had ended in the means of preservation and stalemate. Trolls and humans had agreed to cohabitate on the same ground, some bullshit about some old Earth document proclaiming separate is inherently unequal. Of course, there was not peace with every country worldwide, and Her Imperious Condescension seemed to have better luck agreeing with those whose economies were based on free market trade. 

All this property business and border line crossing is unimportant to Karkat, mainly because he realizes that it is going to take years to sort out, and that it will be his job to hold the proverbial iron. He should be spending the best sweeps of his life out in the field, kicking ass and taking names. Not filing interstellar passports and stamping data reports approved. 

Wiping the coffee off his lap, at least he didn’t manage to break the cup. He’s debating whether or not he should get up for a refill, when he catches a glimpse of the clock. Was it really that early? He had worked through the whole night, and if he was able to see out the window then he would be sure that dawn would be blazing. Damn. The most alien thing about this whole entire planet was the feeble Sun, and he refused to get used to it or the diurnal cycle of humanity. He would sleep in the day like any troll should. 

Karkat begins to gather his things, pushing loose papers into a briefcase. He would finish those later, after a nap and a good meal. He stands up, looking at the small office that he spends most of his evenings in. Grey walls, filing cabinets, staplers and a fogged over window seemed to pulse with the throb of his headache. It was a drab existence, the only hope someday gaining rank by proving his diligence. What a thankless dream. 

He walks through the glass door with his initials etched in faded yellow tape, and makes his way to the lobby of the building. He would try to keep a scowl plastered to his face so that none of his coworkers dared stop him to ask for anything. The wait in the elevator is painful, and he finds his thoughts drifting towards a long soak in the bath tub when he gets home. Hell, maybe he could even add some sopor bubbles. 

The doors open with a ding, and he is home free. Karkat struts across the floor with confidence, enjoying the echo of his own shoes. He goes to the far wall, to the infernal time card machine so that he can clock out. These things will take off fingers if the user isn’t careful. As he’s locating his card, he hears the familiar sound of the doors swinging open. 

Maybe he could have had some warning if he had had a clear view out his window. Then he would have seen the limousine pull outside the building, and he would have noticed the bizarre fuchsia hue. Only highbloods care that much about displaying their own pride, a feeling more alien to Karkat than the sunrise. His movements slow as he watches the Condesce stroll through his building. 

The powerful empress seems not to notice anyone else as she glides to the front desk. She inquires about their productivity level, and requests an audience with the department head. It was, of course, of utmost importance to the cause. 

He had never seen her in person before. Hell, most trolls never get to see her in person, and those who do tend to not live to tell the tale. Karkat is stunned for only a moment, trying to remember that he doesn’t have to be scared of being culled. He has a good government job, he’s protected. He takes a moment too long to quell fear, however, as the time card machine punches his finger. He yowls, and blows on the aching digit. “God damn stupid fucking machines, never work.” Just for good measure, he kicks at the big grey box. This would be the worst time to bleed. Thankfully, it was just a little pinch.

The receptionist seems to fumble around as if she had made the sounds from Karkat’s mouth. “I’m so sorry for him, dreadful sorry. He really isn’t important here, I promise you. He’s got quite a temper and a big mouth, and-” Karkat’s heart drops in the same moment his blood pressure rises. He glares at the receptionist without realizing it might get misconstrued, and steps towards the scuffle. 

Now the Empress seems to notice Karkat for the first time. She looks over to size him up, and he clears his throat. With too much gusto, Karkat tosses his hand behind his back. He makes an awkward bow, and then stares at her feet. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” There’s a pause, and he adds, “Your majesty.” The apology is rushed, and through his teeth. 

She laughs, forgetting the front desk. Karkat is surprised at the cadence of her laugh. He never thought that a dignitary could sound so effervescent, and this gives him the shame globes to look her in the face. She’s grinning like a fox who’s found her way into a chicken coop. “There’s no need to be clammed up. What’s your name?” 

“Karkat Vantas. I’ve worked here for three sweeps, come this summer. I hate this god forsaken planet, and no one ever looks at my transfer requests to the front line.” He stiffens a little bit. 

She clicks her tongue. Gliding towards him, she slides a finger under his chin to tip it up. Her eyes search back and forth, scanning over his face. Annoyed by this, he holds still until she decides to back up again with a laugh. He runs his fingers under his neck, and he’s pretty sure it’s just in his head, but it burns as if her nails were on fire. 

“Perfect. I see big things in your future, Karkat. I’ve got a special mission for you.” She pulls out a piece of paper from her pocket, and his eyes follow her hand. 

This was it, this was his big break. He just had to wait out for the right moment, and show a little initiative. Suddenly, annoyance is replaced with excitement. “Hell yes! It’s about time that someone realized my potential. Whatever you need, I-“ He clears his throat again. “I will be honored to accept the mission.” There’s another little bow.

“Ex-shell-ent, but you might wanna hear details first.” Her smiles grows wider, and his heart beats even faster. He waits in silence, controlling his tongue. Easier said than done. She leans in closer, batting her eyelashes. He’s not sure if she’s flirting, or thinking about all the ways she could run him over with her limousine. 

“What do you know about Hollywood?”


	2. Gotta Be Starting Something

He hates the dramatic trope in movies where it pours rain when every little thing is going wrong, because the weather was always bleakest when good things were happening to him.

 

Dave Strider was found. Not born, and not abandoned. However, he was not lucky enough to be adopted immediately, and so he lives to this day believing that he was born naturally, and that he was abandoned by his mother.

 

At age five, his foster mother lost him in the supermarket. He had the nasty habit of trying to tear into plastic-wrapped apple juice boxes, and none of his siblings liked to babysit when they were only children themselves. When the store manager found him crying in the juice aisle just an hour before closing time, thunder was rumbling outside. He was given a twelve-pack of Minute Maid apple juice, and the manager simply told the stock supervisor they had counted one too many packages. His foster parents scolded him, but he kept the juice on the top bunk where the other kids couldn't see it.

 

When he was nine, his next door neighbor was only two years older than him. A young man with a name he doesn't quite recall, but he is pretty sure it started with the letter R. Anyway, that brave boy agreed to teach him how to ride a bicycle. For some reason, Dave had never liked the way people looked on bikes and so he stubbornly refused to learn to ride them as a child, but enough had been enough. The day he rode his wobbly ass down the street without his neighbor friend holding onto the seat it had been sprinkling all morning. A puddle near the curb had been his undoing, but he was awfully proud of himself for making it that far.

 

At thirteen, he was admittedly kind of a mess. He had tentatively started his own webcomic, an odd thing called _Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff_ , inspired by the screwed-up humor of some of his cooler foster siblings. They weren't all going to college, but they were making their own way. He respected that. One day, he wanted to live his dream too. He sort of wanted to be like Indiana Jones, for lack of a better role model. Sure, action movies were cheesy garbage and Spielberg wasn't perfect, but he managed to make an archaeologist look cool. Anything was possible, and paleontology was sweet.

 

Even if it was, he wasn't. He was more or less a total shithead in his early teens, and no amount of rain could wash away some of the things he said.

 

High school had been a roller coaster, for sure. It turned out he was pretty fucking gifted when it came to art, even though nobody besides a particularly compassionate first grade teacher had told him he should nourish his creativity and let it grow. Dave was a natural in almost every one of his classes. He was a fantastic creative writer, quick on his feet in theatre, hardly needed a calculator in algebra, and he had an eye for beautiful shots in media. He quickly became a favorite of several teachers, and even if he didn't make lifelong friends, he knew those years were about his growth.

 

They were all about discovery, too. He learned a lot of things about himself back then, from the error of his old ways, to the type of camera he prefers to shoot his amateur movies with, to a little bit about his sexuality. It didn't all come at once though, because it took him several girlfriends and a couple of boyfriends to find that relationships weren't about sex for him.

 

For him, it was about the late-night phone conversations, where he could giggle about his own lame jokes from the latest _Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff_ update. It was about holding hands at the doctor's office after one of his foster brothers totaled his car. It was about kissing slowly in the dark to build tension, about cuddling before groping, about I-love-yous before tearing off each others' clothes.

 

Love for him was a slow burn, not a raging inferno.

 

It took until his first semester at college to come to terms with the fact that the way he is, is just fine.

 

When he was nineteen, he decided to ditch college (his major in film, his minor in paleontology) for an immediate opportunity. A friend of his had set something up in Vancouver for him to work on set with a real television production company. He worked as an assistant for months, before he was ultimately given an ultimatum: sleep with one of the production managers for a promotion, or find another job.

 

The weather was always lovely in the summer season. He worked as a cinematographer until he was twenty-one, when he got a better offer.

 

Once he got his name out there, doing little projects and favors on the side, doors started opening. He worked for anyone and everyone he could. He worked his ass off, scared that someone with a degree would best him and that he should've saved up, stayed in school. Dave fought tooth-and-nail for every job he got in Hollywood. He did what he had to do, and he got ahead.

 

When he was twenty-three, he directed a few episodes of some quasi-reality show. He was immediately hired onto the production team of what would become a long-running drama on a popular cable channel. His name was in the opening credits and everything. It was a big fucking deal.

 

One stormy night, at twenty-five, he recieved the call of a lifetime. A very big-name company was picking up his screenplay for _Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff_ , and since he was clearly the only fucking person who understood the humor that went into those quality webcomics, he had to be on board. Dave said yes, and when he hung up the phone he jumped up, punched the air, and accidentally kicked over a desk chair in his excitement. The room was illuminated by the lightning flashing in the distance, but this would be the last night he slept in a studio apartment without any power.

 

The movie — no, the franchise had become wildly popular. Moreso than anyone had anticipated. There was such an ass-backwards following and appreciation for his art, Dave Strider suddenly found himself thrust into a life of real superstardom. He was no crusty old director; he was a young, attractive, creative, and available bachelor with an impressive and varied career backing him. Even if one or two critics hated his work, nobody had anything to say about his personality.

 

That was likely because he showed very little of it to the press. He was a private man, and he tried to stay that way. Of course, he went to all the big events, all the after parties. The paparazzi surprisingly gave enough of a shit about him to harass him. Girls flashed him while he waited in his limousine, fans mailed him envelopes of human hair, kids foolishly threw themselves down flights of stairs to get his attention on social media. His favorite rumors were the speculations of his affair with Mr. Ben Stiller, who had publicly gifted him the aviators from Starsky and Hutch during one of his Oscar acceptance speeches.

 

All things considered, life appeared to have been going great for Dave.        

 

He still smiled when he heard the pitter-patter of rain on the roof of his house (yes, a real _house_ ), but things weren't all swell. He wasn't a politician, but he'd always had very strong opinions. When he was a teenager he figured that he didn't really like trolls. He was never blatantly xenophobic, but they honestly made him uneasy as a species. There was something about the aliens that he didn't like, even though he had met a few trolls that seemed pretty damn normal. When he discovered the weight his words had, the sway his art could bring with the people not only in America, but across the globe, he decided it was his responsibility as a human being to speak up and make protest art against the alien invaders. That is what they are, he thinks. They're up to no good, biding their time like a lion waiting for the right moment to pounce on an antelope and tear it to shreds.

 

The sequel to his first big movie is just as well-recieved, but he becomes shrouded in even more mystery. Exactly what kind of pieces are the installments of _Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff_ supposed to be? The marketing for the movies is a joke in itself, but it made Dave billions richer. He pumps out content online, on television, on the big screen. He is an enigma, someone the media simply cannot figure out. He can usually tell when others are bullshitting him, but nobody can tell how he's feeling about anything until he says the word.

 

Nobody but popular and similarly controversial author Rose Lalonde, but their relationship is barely understood by anyone. Even Dave.

 

He is this and that, but mostly, he is thirsty. Not to say that he craves attention or affection, but that he isn't a morning person, and even if he has the week off for the most part, he needs to get some coffee. Dave is running on empty, and most days caffeine does the trick better than a box of juice ever did.

 

It is raining when he parks his car outside of the nearest corner Starbucks, and he wishes he wore different shoes despite always wanting to look _fresh to death_. If he's honest, his fantastic, bleached-blond hair should be enough. He waits patiently for _someone_ to recognize him, but starts to hope, as the line crawls forward, that maybe no one here knows who he is.


	3. A Challenger Approaches

Karkat slides the extra cash in his wallet. It had been approximately twenty seven hours since the leader of the enslaved world had gifted him with glorious purpose, and he was not happy to be adjusting to the daylight. But thankfully he had had plenty of time to sleep on the plane ride to California after being briefed on his very important mission. So important that he had to drop everything about his boring desk job to fly to another state in order to find and track his target. 

He was currently on step number two of his covert mission, which was to set up camp in Los Angeles. That means acquiring money from the First Bank of Alternia, a hefty federal loan that should survive him for at least a month. He didn’t think his mission would last that long, and he was given the incentive of keeping whatever change was left over as a bonus. 

Karkat tucks the wallet into his jacket pocket, patting the outside of the grey material for reassurance before stepping back outside in the sunlight. God damn the Sun. He opens up his umbrella, a trinket he had picked up that morning at the airport. He was going to have to do a lot more traveling in sun, and he was going to make the best of it. 

In the next hour, Karkat manages to find a place to rent. It’s small and cheap, and most importantly the tenant doesn’t ask for a sample of his blood to keep on record. He would pay any price for anonymity. There might be some day when he could wear his blood color proudly on his sleeve, but unlike most other trolls he would have to earn it. 

Sitting along at the dingy table in his new hive, he spreads out the files contained in the secret briefcase that he had been gifted personally by her Imperious Condescension. He has yet to discover his target of espionage, or the general procedure he would be falling for weeks to come. His mission is annoying, in that it’s set up in steps that he is not allowed to access until completing the previous step. He has a new phone secured to his hip, what with he is supposed to make routine phone calls to HIC’s personal secretary for updates on his mission. Karkat has already used it twice, and thus received clearance to the next step of his paperwork. 

Fuck paperwork. 

Turning to a manila folder, he slides out documents and pictures of the individual target. He looks to the pictures first, the light in the room causing him to squint. Karkat wonders how many this human has murdered, how much civilization he has destroyed, and he gets a sudden pang of disgust in his gut. He stares at the face of the enemy, memorizing every molecule so which to recognize his profile on spot. What a strange face, an alien face. 

Putting the snapshots aside, most of them looking like they were taken without permission, he looks at the information gathered. It’s sparse, only a few paragraphs long. Karkat wonders if this is truly all they know about the target, or if this is another road block to keep him easily disposable. 

Without an answer, he reads on. This particular individual is a danger to both trolls and humans, seeing as he has a strong following that closely resembles a cult. Karkat reads it again, trying to find the crime against humanity, the urgency, the alarm. This is just some crackpot director, some asshole who can’t even make good movies. He frantically shuffles through the rest of his papers, but all he can find is a list of this guy’s favorite local restaurants. 

The floor feels a good portion of his frustration. Karkat stomps six times, the idea that this really is a pointless mission dawning on him. That was impossible. How could his one shot at greatness already be over? He was going to have to trust his government, despite their incompetency, and follow their orders without question. He was going to gather as much information on this blonde hack as possible. 

Not wanting to waste any time, Karkat chooses only to clean up his papers and hide them in a drawer in the ablution trap before leaving the hive. All but one bit of paper, which he stores in his jacket pocket with his wallet. Why would he stop to sleep when there was a job to be done? Karkat decides to start at the top of the list of restaurants, starting on a cycle where he was bound to eventually catch his perpetrator. 

The first three cafes are absolutely useless, and he feels like a used tissue by the time he gets to the forth. The human shops start to shut down after the sun sets, and the troll eateries put out their welcome mats as he starts to give up. It’s an embarrassing walk back to his hive, even if no one but Karkat feels the shame. 

The next five days go on in a similar fashion, and he can tell that HIC is losing patience with him. He needs to have at least a sighting, at least something. He’s possibly the worst spy in the universe. Is it possible to get demoted from a desk job? He really hopes that it isn’t, but there is a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. His patriotism prevails, and he pushes on passed the first week for the love of his planet alone. 

Karkat finally gets his first sighting on the eighth day of scouting. It’s the damn shades that give him away. He’s not even in one of the shops on his list, but walking down the street on the way to the Alternian grocery store to pick up a can of grubloaf. All thoughts of generic meat product are pushed out of his mind when he sees a splotch of red and blonde. He loses his composure, and scrambles behind a plant before he forgets that his target won’t recognize his face. Too late now. The drizzling rain complicates things, but trolls always see best in the dark anyway. 

He can’t believe that he saw this asshole the moment he gave up trying, and he decides that he hates this human more than anyone else. A lump caught in his throat, he ignores the urge to simply call up his superiors instantly. He could prove himself, he knows it. The hate for this guy already is pure enough that he can channel it into learning more and possibly apprehending this villain. 

Karkat moves in for the proverbial kill, entering the coffee shop. He does not actually want to kill anyone, not yet. This was a generic place, not one of the many pretentious hipster listings he had memorized by now. He wonders if this douche expected to be recognized here, and if he should take the route of an adoring fan or not. 

As one of the only trolls in the place, he stands out pretty obviously. But if that alone wasn’t enough, he walks over and sits down on one of the tables without ordering. He’s staring quite profusely at his target, trying to figure out what to do with this guy before he notices him. Karkat trying to be discreet is making him extra obvious. 

His fingers tap on the table, claws clinking against the smooth tile. When he catches the glance of the target, he narrows his eyes in a challenge. 

A challenge that he plans on winning.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a collaborative work with sheepalicious.tumblr.com [who has no AO3 account but is still a babe]
> 
> wonder if you can tell our writing styles apart


End file.
